


In Retrograde

by ephemerals (stpatrick)



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Ex-Police Officer Brooke, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Journalist Vanessa, Lesbian AU, Repressed gay feelings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-02 18:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19446799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stpatrick/pseuds/ephemerals
Summary: After spending months uninspired, Vanessa,  a local reporter, becomes infatuated with writing a story surrounding the downfall of a police officer discharged after killing an innocent man.When Brooke Lynn returns to her hometown after her life begins to fall apart, she doesn’t expect to find solace in the charismatic brunette who seems just a little too invested in uncovering all the secrets of her past.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely inspired by Gillian Flynn’s Sharp Objects. Trigger warning for self harm & references addiction.

_ Friday, March 23rd, 2018 _

**_Innocent Teenager Mistaken for Ruthless Criminal, Killed by Police._ **

_ At approximately 9:37 pm on Wednesday, March 21st, police units were called to a domestic dispute at Wexford as shots were overheard by neighbours. When emergency units arrived at the scene, a young woman, later identified as 23 year-old Eva Talbott, was pronounced dead after obtaining a gunshot to the head. Her fiancé, 25 year-old Damon Carmichael was witnessed fleeing the scene by multiple onlookers. Carmichael had been known by police for many years due to an extensive history of domestic violence with past partners.  _

_ Backup units were called to search for the suspect who headed north, described by witnesses as 6’2, Caucasian, slim with short dark hair, wearing a burgundy sweatshirt. The murder weapon was not found at the scene. Two local officers Sergeant Brooke Lynn Hytes and Constable Yvie Oddly were patrolling Warden Avenue at this time and responded to the backup call. At 10:03 pm, Sergeant Hytes reported that they had found the suspect near Wexford Heights United Church, and received orders to approach him carefully assuming he was armed. After resisting arrest and becoming agitated, Sergeant Hytes followed orders and fired two shots, both in the victim's chest. Paramedics attending the crime identified the body as 19 year old Thomas Price, a Biology student at the University of Toronto. _

_ Police authorities described the incident “as a truly shocking tragedy for the Toronto community” but refused to comment on the current status of Ms Hytes’ job. While no further action has been taken yet, it is highly unlikely that she will remain in the force after this tragedy. Constable Oddly has taken leave following this accident. There is a public outcry for Ms Hytes to receive criminal charges, with the community starting various online petitions that have had viral success worldwide. It is likely the police commissioner will call an enquiry if this public pressure continues.  _

_ Damon Carmichael has since been taken into police custody and charged with first degree murder, alongside various other outstanding charges. We reached out to the victims families and Ms Hytes, however they declined to comment. We will keep you up to date with the all the news on this ongoing story. _

. . .

_ Tuesday, April 3rd, 2018.  _

Brooke presses her head against the cold glass of the window, eyes drawn to the picturesque countryside. Green against green blurring together. It’s a big change from the concrete jungle she had become accustomed to over the last few years. Suburbia had never suited her. However, there was always something peaceful about coming back to her hometown, regardless of how unwelcome she may be. 

It had been quite some time since she had been home. While she loved her parents dearly, dealing with them could only be described as difficult at the best of times.  Her mother was overbearing. Brooke knew she had outlandish expectations of what she expected from her only child. Her father never said very much about it all. So, when she broke the news to her parents that she had been dismissed from her job after she killed an innocent kid, they were far from impressed. And then a few days later, she told them her fiancé had called off the engagement. It was this rotten cycle that every few years Brooke would hit rock bottom and return, crying for their help.

In the seat beside her, her best friend Nina had been unusually quiet the entire journey. Nina was everything Brooke wasn’t. On the surface, it may have seemed like  Brooke had everything together, but those close to her knew she was far from it. Between anxiously tapping away at the wheel and humming alone to the radio, Nina hadn’t been able to speak a word. Some things were better left unsaid. But she was aware there was a tension looming, full of unanswered questions and uncertainty. And Nina had never been one to stay silent for long.

“Brooke-“ Nina’s concentration diverts from the road momentarily, first to Brooke, then to the rear view mirror. Gravel crunches under the wheels. Music plays softly from the radio. Brooke interjects, her voice low and soft.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not going to, baby,” Nina drawls, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a kind smile on Nina’s face, Brooke can see it in the reflection of the windscreen. She rolls her eyes like a brooding teenager, quietly scoffs at Nina’s words. Brooke is the furthest from okay that perhaps she had ever been. It was hard to keep things from Nina, she always had an inkling of what was bubbling under the surface. 

Gravel crunches, music plays, they sit in silence. 

Brooke reaches over to turn up the radio but Nina swats her hand away. She needs a fucking cigarette, a drink, maybe even something else if she could get her hands on it.

“I took the day off from work to pick your ass up,” Nina forces a laugh. Brooke knows she’s trying way too hard to lighten the mood, “I just want you to know that I’m here for you. You can talk to me.”

It’s times like this where Brooke is reminded that Nina is too compassionate for her own good. In the days after the shooting, Nina was the first (and only) person to reassure her things will end up alright. When she found out she had lost her job, when her fiancé left her, Nina was there. Took vacation leave from work to visit Toronto for a couple of days. Nina was that ride-or-die friend. 

For the majority of her life, Nina has been the only person to really care.

“Thank you,” is all that Brooke can muster up the courage to say. It comes in a whisper, so muffled she swears Nina won’t hear it. She knows at some point she has to talk to Nina about the mess she has made for herself, but now was not the time.

. . .

“You could stay with me,” Nina had offered, right after finding out Luke had called off the engagement. It was a shame, Nina thought, he was a decent guy. Far from who she expected Brooke to end up with. Brooke had been surprisingly calm on the phone, recalling word for word what Luke had said. 

“ _ Fuck up after fuck up. I stood by you every single time Brooke and this is how you fucking repay me? You made me look like a fool being with you _ .” 

Brooke had seen this coming from a mile away. They didn’t really love each other, it was a relationship out of convenience. The kind that comes along when you don’t believe you deserve any better. To him, Brooke was just a trophy. She made his friends drool and his parents proud. All he wanted was the visuals. Brooke knew he didn’t give a shit about her feelings. For the longest time, Luke ignored all the baggage Brooke came with. When things slowly unravelled, he tried his hardest to keep things in his control. This time was just so far out of his control it was the final straw. 

“I’m sure Justin would be  _ thrilled _ with me staying,” Brooke knew that would be a stupid decision on Nina’s part. Her husband had never been fond of Brooke and vice versa. In his mind, Brooke was a bad influence, shitty friend, unloyal partner, an addict, emotionally unstable. Now, a fucking murder. Nina adored him and that was enough for Brooke to try and be civil. Luckily, her husband’s many opinions didn’t make Nina love Brooke any less. 

“It isn’t a bad idea though,” Nina’s voice crackled over the phone, “Come back home for a while, baby. Wait until it blows over. Stay with us.”

“This thing isn’t going to blow over,” It was two in the morning and she’s leaning up against the exterior of some nightclub, smoking a cigarette. She was alone, six, maybe seven vodka sodas deep, “I killed someone. People don’t usually forget about something like that.”

“You were doing your job.”

“My job was to protect people, Nina. I think people are rightfully angry. I’m fucking angry with myself.”

Brooke pressed the lit end of the cigarette into the skin of her thigh. She winced at the sensation and hoped that Nina couldn’t recognise the sound through the phone. 

“I know, baby,” Nina cooed soothingly through the speakers. Brooke flicked the ash from her skin, circling the damage with her finger. A bullet hole of her own. Tender, red, swollen, burnt. Her fingers trace another, and another, and another. One for a dead teenager, one for a broken marriage, one for a stint in rehab. A timeline of events in aging scars scattered sporadically across her legs. One for losing her job, one for every time she disappointed her parents, one for every time she disappointed Nina. 

_ Fuck up after fuck up _ . 

She is silent and she is spiralling on the streets of Toronto in the early hours of the morning. What was even worse for Brooke is Nina knows. Nina always knows.

“ _ Come home _ . I’ll come and get you. I’ve got some sick days I can use, I’ll drive to Toronto, help you pack some stuff up. You shouldn’t be alone right now, Brooke. You know what happens.”

It could be because she was drunk, or depressed, or tired, but surprisingly, Brooke said yes.

. . .

As they pull into town, Brooke almost asks Nina to drive her back.  _ Almost _ . She reminds herself that unfortunately she doesn’t have a home anymore. Her apartment occupied by someone else now, her things split with her ex-boyfriend. She wishes she felt some remorse about her breakup but Brooke was completely numb. The anger had settled through the drinking and the chaos. Now, Brooke was detached from this mess. Repression wasn’t the best coping mechanism, but it would do for now. 

The streets of the suburbs slowly became more familiar as they edged closer to her parents house. They were on the nicer side of town, with picket fences, green lawns and manicured gardens. Upper-middle class. They drive past Nina’s house, two stories with pastel sliding. Somehow exactly what she envisioned Nina living in. They brought it about a year ago, a little worse for wear. Every time she would ring, Nina would have an anecdote about something stupid Justin had done that day. It was the simple, domestic life Brooke had always longed for but would never have.

“Last chance, you don’t have to stay with your parents,” Nina grins as they turned the final corner towards Brooke’s family home. She’s joking and happy and for a second, Brooke cracks the slightest smile.

“Justin wouldn’t even let me through the front door.”

Nina couldn’t argue with that. 

As the car pulls to a halt, Nina speaks again, “Promise me you’ll behave yourself, Brooke. I can’t be running after you while you self destruct again.”

Bemused, Brooke raises an eyebrow. It was a strange thing to come from Nina’s mouth, usually selfless, kind. Her folded arms unravel to reach for the seat belt buckle, as an air of silence lay between them. Reaching for the door handle, Brooke reassures her, “Yeah, Nina. I’ll be good.”

It’s far from genuine; Brooke knows this, Nina knows this. She’s seconds away from coming apart at the seams. Brooke steps out into the spring air and Nina follows suit. She opens up the trunk of the car and pulls out the remnants of her life in Toronto. A few boxes of sentimental items, two suitcases of clothes, nothing substantial. It’s hard to believe her entire belongings had comfortably fit inside the back of Nina’s car.

The wheels of the suitcases catch momentarily on the gravel pathway on the way to the house. Brooke drags both cases behind her haphazardly. In her arms, Nina has piled as many boxes as possible, surpassing the height of her head. They both struggle up the stairs and before she knew it, Brooke is faced with ringing the doorbell. She straightens her posture, sighs, and presses her fingertip to the doorbell. 

Her mother greets her with a frenzied hug, incoherently mumbling to Nina about how she promised to visit months ago and hasn’t. Her father watches from behind the doorway, arms folded and face emotionless. Somewhere in the midst her mother acknowledges Brooke, mentions something about gaining weight or losing weight, maybe she should take some more pride in her appearance, especially now that she's single. It’s a whirlwind she’s swept up in, as her mother pulls away from the hug and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Her father grabs the boxes from Nina. Brooke follows him in silence, her suitcases in tow. Downstairs, her mother and Nina remain carried away in conversation, the sound polite laughs echoing through the house. They set her things down at the foot of her childhood bed. Brooke’s father shyly smiles and opens his arms, “I’m glad you’re home, kiddo.” 

Brooke falls into his embrace, “How much convincing did it take this time?” After the sequence of events that usually occur once Brooke returns home, her mother was quite apprehensive of letting her back into the house. An understandably fear, but Brooke’s father would never let his daughter be left without a home to come back to.

“Eh,” he playfully muses, “I had to get on my knees and beg.”

The smile on Brooke’s face is authentic for the first time in weeks. They pull away from each other slowly and maybe, Brooke is just a little happy to be home.

“Now, lets go downstairs kiddo, before your mother talks Nina’s ear off.”

. . .

It was a typical Tuesday night for Vanessa and her girls, having been dragged along to the local bar by an already tipsy Silky. To her left, A’keria sips politely on the glass of wine Silky had gifted her, claiming that unlike the rest of them, she can’t rock up to work hungover the next morning. Unlike Silky, Vanessa always had thought this was sensible; A’keria taught at the local high school and she knew that teenagers could be the worst people on the planet sometimes. Vanessa had no qualms about drinking on a weeknight, especially with how slow work was at the moment. She knew that tomorrow, once again, she would be writing about the local football team losing their sixth consecutive game or an upcoming fundraiser on the weekend. It wasn’t exactly how she envisioned using her journalism degree, but a job was a job. 

On her right, Silky had been complaining about a rude customer for so unbelievably long, Vanessa had zoned out. She didn’t miss the days of working in retail at all. Silky had some horror stories from the years of running her bakery. She might just be writing for the local newspaper, but Vanessa was grateful she didn’t have to deal with unsatisfied customers and hormonal teenagers on a daily basis. 

“So, I overheard somthin’ interesting today,” Vanessa’s ears perk up as Silky changes the subject. She takes a swig from her beer as Silky continues, “Miss Brooke Lynn’s back in town.”

Perplexed, Vanessa remains silent. That name sounds familiar, but Vanessa can’t seem to figure out why. Both Silky and A’keria grew up together in town, so quite often Vanessa had no clue who they were talking about. Local legends, bitches from high school, the usual offenders. It pricks an interest in her as A’keria scoffs, “Damn, that bitch can’t stay away for long. That’s why Nina’s taken so much time off work lately, probably cleanin’ up that girl’s latest bullshit.”

Vanessa had interviewed Nina a few times now regarding the productions she ran at the high school. She was a colleague of A’keria’s, so over time they had become acquainted at several functions and events. From what she knew, they all went to school together as teenagers and she was one of the few people they spoke fondly of. Vanessa quickly recalls various anecdotes and stories the girls have told her, trying to put her finger on how she knows this name. 

“Nina needs to stop pandering to that bitch and let her reap what she sows,” Silky retorts before knocking back the rest of her drink, “Miss Hytes’ can’t keep running back from Toronto every time somethin’ goes wrong.”

Brooke Lynn Hytes. Toronto.  _ Oh _ . 

“Wait, Brooke Lynn Hytes as in  _ Sergeant Hytes _ ?” Both Silky and A’keria sharply turn to face Vanessa, “As in the officer who killed that innocent kid? The one all over the internet?”

A’keria nods, “That’s her.”

“Fuck,” it comes out as a gentle hiss, Vanessa stunned by the realisation, “She lived here? You knew her?”

“Don’t get any ideas,” A’keria interjects, “We know how you like those bad white girls.”

“There’s a story there-“ Vanessa starts before being cut off by A’keria.

“Don’t get any ideas, that girls a bad omen.” 

A bad omen maybe, a good story definitely. Writing a story about a fall from grace, a golden girl gone wild, something interesting would definitely get her out of this slump she has fallen into. It’s an exciting prospect. An article to finally showcase her talent. 

Both A’keria and Silky watched as the cogs in her mind ran into overdrive.  _ Hometown Hero, National Disgrace _ ; Vanessa could see the headline now. 


	2. ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the support so for far!! I appreciate every single comment, it really helped motivate me to keep writing!

In the days that followed the night at the bar, Vanessa’s mind had become plagued with inspiration. She had pitched her idea to Michelle, the editor. A think piece, the details will come later. All she knew was that the star of the show would be Brooke Lynn Hytes and her fall from grace. Surprising, Michelle enjoyed her ambition. Probably excited to read something with some substance. She just needs to see a draft on the table by the end of the week. 

However, it becomes clear to Vanessa that she’s overlooked a lot of details and maybe she was a little  _ too _ ambitious. Her grand plans are thwarted by crippling writers block, and when it hits the night before the deadline, she’s got absolutely nothing on her page. She needs to do some research, and quick. So, Vanessa reverts to the most effective method of gathering research;  _ Facebook stalking _ . 

Brooke Lynn Hytes. Seventy-four mutual friends. Vanessa enlarges her profile picture. She’s smiling, looking down from the camera towards her cocktail. It’s obviously taken by someone else on vacation, probably somewhere Mediterranean. Her blonde hair is back pulled in a tight bun, skin bronzed and absolutely glowing. If Vanessa didn’t know she was doing research on a criminal, she would have assumed this woman was an Instagram influencer or something along those lines. 

Vanessa aimlessly clicks through several public photos, all of them seeming meticulously chosen. There was not a single bad photo among the bunch. In every single photo that loaded, Brooke looked the exact same. Tall, blonde surrounded by other beautiful women, handsome men. And that’s when she notices something. Not a single one of these photos were uploaded by Brooke, nor were they uploaded recently. Vanessa keeps scrolling through the pictures, all dated two, three years in the past. 

And there’s this  _ man _ . He’s in almost every single photo. Just slightly taller than her, dark hair, designer suits. Gorgeous and absolutely terrifying. Intrigued, Vanessa opens his tag.  _ Luke Connelly _ . Luckily for her, his profile was completely public. Investment banker. Toronto. Got engaged to Brooke Lynn Hytes in August, 2015. Broke up with Brooke Lynn Hytes March, 2018. Well, this is just an assumption. There’s a surplus of brand new photos featuring a much younger, much smaller blonde girl. Her names Ariel and she’s a makeup artist. Vanessa also assumes Luke has known her longer than March. 

After spending the better part of an hour scouring through the network of profiles, Vanessa concludes that she isn’t going to reach the deadline. That’s always when she decides that maybe she needs a drink. 

. . .

Brooke’s been bored shitless for days. She’s really trying to stick to the promise she made with Nina. To behave herself, stay out of trouble. It’s been easier that she thought to do so. In the week she had been home, she had left the house only once and the entire time strangers gawked at her like they had seen a ghost. She spent her hours dwindling down her parents collection of mature wines and watching whatever Netflix recommended to her. It was just enough to distract her from thinking about her life, but not enough to entertain her. 

As the supplies began to run dry, Brooke had begun to look for some new ways to keep her occupied without leaving the house. Late one afternoon, she found herself curiously rummaging through her father’s collection of vinyl records. Most of them she remembered fondly, her father playing them softly through the house whenever he was home. Brooke chose one at random, examining the cover for a moment before turning to the track list.  _ Born In The USA _ . Gently, she removes the cover and places it on the turntable. As the needle hits the vinyl, the first notes of a familiar song begin playing. 

Brooke takes a seat on her father’s armchair, resting her chin in her hand. This was the album she used to dance around the house to as a kid with her dad. He’d swing her around in circles until her mother would stop them in frustration. Her father was the first one to suggest that Brooke should take dance lessons, and with extreme perseverance, her mother finally agreed. Sometimes, Brooke wished that she followed that path instead. There was always this voice in her head that told her to be realistic, get a  _ real _ job, get married, have a normal life. It was so much easier to surrender. So she moved to Toronto, trained with the police and got engaged to the first man who showed interest in her. And now this fantasy world she had built for herself was crumbling. 

That was the worst part of it all. This wasn’t even what Brooke  _ wanted _ . All of this was a masquerade. Brooke had lured all these people into this lie. That’s what she felt the most guilty about. Nina, Luke, her parents. People who are going to be hurt in the fallout. Tears begin welling up in her eyes. Her chest is heavy and it isn’t long before Brooke is choking back sobs. She falls back into the armchair, weeping to the soft hum of her father’s music. 

. . .

Brooke awakens, weary-eyed and hazy, instantly drawn to the sounds of movement in the room. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, slowly opening them towards her father tidying up in the corner of the room. The album had come to a halt, needle caught spinning in the deadwax. 

“Springsteen huh?” He holds up the cover to Brooke, grinning. Brooke sits herself up, limbs still tired. 

“I just picked whatever.”

“You know,” her father slides the album between hundreds of others on the shelf, “We used to dance to this when you were little. Your mother hated it.”

“Yeah,” Brooke’s reply is soft, “I remember.” 

Outside, the world has become dark. The sun had set and the stars were high above. Her father goes back to what he was previously doing, solemn with nostalgia. Of all the people she has hurt over the years, her father had taken it the hardest. In his eyes, Brooke would always be his little girl. And yet he knows everything Brooke has done. 

“Your mother-,” there’s a beat, he turns towards his daughter, “and I, we think it’s best if you see someone again. I know you won’t like the idea-“

“I’m fine, Dad,” she hoists herself up, begins to walk towards him, “I don’t need a stranger to pry inside my mind.”

There was always this uncertainty around how Brooke would react. Every since she was young, Brooke had always lashed out in unexpected ways. It was her way of controlling things, taking everything out on herself. Entirely impossible to predict. By now, her father knew to approach things with caution or else prepare for the worst. If Brooke was heading on the path of self-destruction, nothing could stop her.

“Brooke,” he rests the palms of his hands on her shoulders, “You keep drinking the day away. I hear you awake at all hours of the night. I don’t think you have eaten a single meal since you’ve been home. What if you relapse? What if it’s worse? We’re just worried.”

“I’m not going to waste my time pouring my heart out to someone, just to tell me how much of a bad person I am. I already know that I’m a terrible person.”

“Just,” he presses a kiss on her forehead in between his words, “Think about it for me. Promise me?”

“Okay, I will.”

Looming over her, Brooke has all these promises she’s destined to break. Going to therapy, bringing her problems to light, sounded like the worst scenario. For now, Brooke carries this weight with her. There’s a million things demanding her attention that she will continue to keep repressed for as long as she possibly can. She needs something to stop the noise, even if it's just for a minute. She just needs  _ something _ .

. . .

When Brooke first enters the doors of the bar, it was as if she never left. In the two years since she had been home, the place had not changed in the slightest way. The jukebox booms over all the other noise in the room. Eerily empty, the sparse customers all focused on the hockey game playing silently on the TV. Brooke saunters up to the bar, leaning over towards the bartender. 

“A whiskey on the rocks please,” She asks politely, the bartender raising his eyebrow at the request. Brooke slides the money towards him.

“That’s not the kind of drink a pretty girl like you should be orderin’,” An older man calls from across the bar. The gathering of people around him snicker at the comment. Brooke rolls her eyes and knocks back her drink in a single gulp. She doesn’t flinch as it burns her throat.

“I’ll take another one please,” She smirks, the men on the other side of the room stop instantly. She could out-drink each and every one of them. Brooke perches herself on a stool, downing her second drink at a much slower pace. That’s something she didn’t miss about being single, the attention she would receive from men. Having a ring on her finger was enough protection. Men respected other men. They respected the concept of her husband more than they cared about the woman before her. Now she was exposed and vulnerable. A pretty unclaimed woman. The thought of it all made Brooke feel ill.

_ Hey, little girl, is your daddy home? _

_ Did he go away and leave you all alone? _

_ I got a bad desire. _

_ Oh, oh, oh _

_ I'm on fire. _

The melody of a familiar song begins playing in the background among the blur of chatter and clamouring of glass. Brooke empties her glass and orders a replacement. She looks back behind her briefly, caught off guard by a piercing glare in her direction. A woman sitting alone in a booth with caramel hair and dark eyes.  _ Hauntingly beautiful _ . The eye contact causes Brooke to recoil, turning her head back to face the bar immediately. Brooke’s almost certain she’s still staring, burning her way through her skull. A part of her wants to turn back, take a good once over of this woman. 

_ Tell me now, baby, is he good to you? _

_ And can he do to you the things that I do? _

_ Oh no, I can take you higher. _

_ Oh, oh, oh _

_ I'm on fire. _

A cacophony of drunken men erupt in song. It’s rowdy and loud, arms being thrown around shoulders in camaraderie. An average night in a small town bar. It distracts Brooke for long enough to forget about the mysterious woman behind her. Enamoured by the chaos. They sing and slosh their drinks around, whiskey and rum flooding the floor. 

_ Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull, _

_ And cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull. _

_ At night, I wake up with the sheets soakin' wet, _

_ And a freight train runnin' through the middle of my head. _

Tapping her foot against the stool, Brooke can’t help to hum along. She envisions her father joyfully spinning her around their living room, lifting her up high towards the ceiling. They slide around on the floorboards in their socks, jump around on the sofa while her mother is away. Her eyes are closed but Brooke is beaming, immersed in the song. 

_ Only you can cool my desire. _

_ Oh, oh, oh _

_ I'm on fire. _

And as the song draws to a close, Brooke is brought slowly back to reality. She’s alone and slightly tipsy in public. The outro rings through her ears. The spontaneous karaoke is replaced by conversation. The room is back how it once was. Brooke curiously glances behind her. 

The booth was completely empty. The woman was no longer there.

. . .

After a while, she slips out the front for a cigarette. The night air caresses her exposed skin. She’s dressed quite casually, ripped jeans and a baggy shirt that slouched down her shoulder. Brooke didn’t have the commitment to dress like she used to. It cost money and her precious time to look that way. She covers her cigarette to light it, inhaling sharply, exhaling the smoke into the night. 

It was a bad habit, but not her worst by any means. While the thought didn’t necessarily thrill her parents or Nina, they gathered it was much better she smoked then binged on drugs or hurt herself again. Brooke liked the routine of it all. It was a meditative experience, taking time out of her day just for herself. Nina had argued that it was making time to slowly kill yourself, but the argument was lost on Brooke. She was always going to do what she wanted, regardless of what anyone had to say. On a good day, they were enough to keep her calm. On a bad day, well, they just came in handy.

Today, Brooke wasn’t entirely sure where she was at. The hours passed painfully slow. Maybe it was just the alcohol clouding her brain, but everything had felt almost like a dream. Dampening her brain with masses of alcohol had just saturated that feeling. Brooke couldn’t stop thinking about  _ that woman _ . She was utterly surreal. It could have all been part of her imagination, a hallucination. But the fierce stare had penetrated straight into Brooke’s soul. The interaction had been so abrupt, had it been literally anyone else, it would have already slipped her mind. 

But it  _ lingers _ , and it  _ burns _ .

If Brooke was smart, she would go home and sleep it off. Wake up in the morning, perhaps a little hungover, but at least with a clear mind. Her mind is foggy, just enough for her to keep pushing. She takes the final drags of her cigarette, stubbs the remainder into the wall and she steps towards the building’s door. Except as the door swings open, Brooke’s stopped in the tracks by a sudden force. She loses her balance temporarily as the other person curses in a raspy voice.

“ _ Hey _ ! Watch where you’re goin’.”

“I’m so sor-“ Brooke starts, as she looks up. Caramel hair. Dark eyes.  _ Oh fuck _ . 

Startled, both women step back. The other woman’s mouth agape, eyes wide. Deer in the headlights. Once she regains composure, Brooke restarts her apology.

“I’m so sorry, I should be paying more attention.”

“Uh,” the woman stammers, “Don’t worry about it. I was just leavin’.”

Hurried, she pushes past her trying to escape. Brooke reaches out, in a rare moment of intoxicated bravery, and grabs her wrist gently. Her fingertips ignite at the feathery touch. 

“ _ Wait _ !” Brooke’s words come out shaky in confusion, hoping,  _ praying _ that somehow she can get this woman to stay. Brooke was definitely intrigued, “Let me buy you a drink to apologise.”

“I-“ The woman pulls away, stuttering through her words, “I have to go.”

Swiftly, the woman disappears into the night. Left silent and astounded, Brooke is still. Illuminated in the neon light, wind hissing in her ear. 

_Brooke is on fire._


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence & death as well as mentions of drug abuse, drinking and self harm. Be safe everyone!!!

It was just like any regular Tuesday night patrolling the streets of Toronto for Sergeant Hytes. In the passenger seat sat her partner, Constable Oddly, bored out of her mind. The pair made quite a duo, on and off the field. Over the years, Yvie had proven herself as Brooke’s only decent friend in Toronto. It did involve brazen nights out fuelled by binge drinking and drugs, but it was a nice change for her to be authenticity herself around someone. And honestly Yvie was unlike anyone she had ever met. 

“Look, can’t we just ditch this and go back to my place and get stoned,” Yvie pleaded, Brooke shooting her a stern look in response. She impatiently tapped her fingers on the wheel as they aimless drove around. 

“That seems like a one-way ticket to getting fired,” Her attention diverted back onto the road. 

“The old Brooke would have done it,” groaned Yvie, playfully punching Brooke’s arm, “I miss that bitch.”

“ _ That bitch _ had to clean up her act, remember.”

Brooke missed the old version of her too. Spontaneous and fun, she didn’t care what people think of her. Now, things were much different. She went to rehab (under the radar, of course), received a promotion and she was just months away from getting married. Brooke couldn’t be a party girl anymore. It was time to grow up. Luckily, Yvie understood what she had to do, but it didn’t mean she had to be happy with it. 

“Yeah, you had to clean up your act for that fiancé of yours,” Yvie stated, “Who you don’t even like.”

Yvie was right and she knew it. The couple was doomed from the start. Brooke was much too independent and mostly unfazed by their relationship. During the time they had been friends, Yvie had seen Brooke engage in very brief affairs but she wasn’t one to stick around for long. It might be commitment issues, but Yvie honestly thought it ran deeper than that. So, the fact that Brooke has been with Luke for so long really was a surprise. 

“He’s a good guy, Yves.” 

“That’s not usually how people talk about their significant others,” Yvie smirked. Brooke just shrugged the comment off. It wasn’t the first time Yvie would make a comment like that, and it wouldn’t be the last time. 

“So, are we getting stoned or what, Bee?”

“Shuga would kill us if she found out. Especially if something happens and we don’t report back.”

“That’s not a no,” Yvie playfully added. Brooke shook her head, “It’s a no.”

“I hate when you’re serious, bitch. Let’s hope there is some dumb crimes tonight to keep us busy.”

So, they drive. And just like any regular Tuesday, it’s uneventful. As time dragged on, both girls were awaiting some action. The streets were completely still, not a single soul embarking out into the nightlife. 

Then, the radio goes off.

“ _ Requiring backup for a domestic dispute at Wexford. Victim dead on arrival. Suspect armed and on the run. Caucasian, 6’2, slim build. Last seen wearing a burgundy t-shirt and grey sweatpants.”  _

Yvie beamed in anticipation, “Heading towards Wexford, over.” 

. . .

Brooke is awoken by a violent pounding in her head. Instantly groaning at it’s appearance, too hungover to actually do something about it. It’s beating through her skull like a drum. Unsure how long she was out for, she glances at her phone.  _ 10:27 _ . Her mind wanders, memories of the night before foggy in her brain.  _ That girl _ . What in the world was up with her? 

After futilely trying to go back to sleep, Brooke eventually prys herself away from her bed in search of painkillers. She pads into the en-suite, disheartened by the completely empty medicine cabinet. While there, she washes last nights makeup and grime from her skin. She stares at her reflection for just a moment too long, before treading downstairs to scour the guest bathroom for drugs. Brooke passes her mother in the kitchen without a word, retrieves two ibuprofen capsules and swallows them down with a swig of tap water. Heading back towards her bedroom, she’s stopped in her tracks by her mother.

“Where were you last night?” 

“I didn’t know I had to report to you,” Brooke wanders into the kitchen, her mother on her tail. It was easier to rip the bandage off, endure the conversation now rather than actively avoid her. She props herself up against a cupboard awaiting her mother’s scolding. 

“While you live under my roof you do as I say,” her mother’s stare is icy cold. Arms folded, stern. For a second, Brooke is taken back to her teenage years, where she could do no right in her mother’s eyes. Her walls are up in preparation for a fight.

“I’m thirty-three, I’m sorry that I assumed I was allowed to be independent.”

“Well, you lost that privilege when you almost died during a cocaine binge, remember?” There’s a beat, Brooke’s mouth agape, “Someone has to babysit you since you constantly fail at taking care of yourself. I’ve booked you an appointment with your old therapist, no discussion.”

Brooke had to admit, she should have seen it coming. Her father wouldn’t have hinted at the idea unless her mother was devising a plan. Yesterday was a warning. 

“What if I just don’t-“

“ _ No discussion _ . The appointments at three.” 

Brooke huffs as she storms off like an upset child. She marches up the stairs and climbs back under the covers of her bed. Her head continues throbbing despite the medication but she does her best to doze off, praying she sleeps through that three o’clock appointment.

. . .

“I don’t think I’m able to write this story, Ms Visage,” Vanessa meekly admits, standing before her editor. Deadlines fast approaching, Michelle sitting emotionless, scribbling on another reporter’s draft. The office is outdated, with wooden sliding and retro styled furnishing. If the budget allowed for it, the first thing Michelle would do is redesign the place but the reality of working for the local newspaper meant money was tight. 

“And why is that?” Her gaze doesn’t wander from her work. Vanessa gulps, billions of excuses flying through her head.  _ I’m unsure how to get close enough to her to get the story. She seems like a nice girl and I misjudged her _ .  _ I almost knocked her over and she was super pretty and nice to me _ .  _ I couldn’t even speak to her properly _ . 

She could have had her story, but Vanessa ran straight in the opposite direction.

“I was too ambitious,” it’s a lie.

It peaks Michelle’s interest. She glances up above her glasses, unconvinced.

“Too ambitious? Go on.”

“I wanted to write an exposè, y’know. Deep dive into her life, find out how someone ends up killin’ a kid. Talk to her friends, family maybe.”

“That doesn’t sound ambitious, it sounds like journalism,” Michelle is absolutely unimpressed. She drops the pen from her hand and reclines in her chair. Vanessa stands still, waiting to be reprimanded for wasting her time.

“Miss Mateo, you are a very talented journalist. Much too talented to be writing for this newspaper all your life. You have a rare opportunity here to establish yourself as a reporter. I want you to write this story. Forget the deadline, hand in some shitty pieces about local events in the meantime. Don’t be afraid to pursue this. It’s the first interesting idea that has come my way in years.”

The response was the exact opposite of what Vanessa expected. She was ready for a slap on the wrist, to forget about the whole ordeal. Write an article about the local nursing home for the hundredth time. Stay content in her slump for a little longer. 

There’s a story here  _ begging _ to be shared to the world. A story like nothing Vanessa has written before. She’s not going to give up this time. 

“ _ Okay _ ,” Vanessa is strangely inspired by the challenge, “I accept the challenge, Ms Visage.” 

There’s a skip in her step as Vanessa leaves her editor’s office. Maybe this was her big break.

. . .

As three o’clock rolls around, Brooke nervously awaits her appointment with her phone glued to her hand. Her frantic texts to Nina receiving instant worried replies. Rightfully so, there was a pattern of Brooke’s self-destructive behaviour increasing after her visits with therapists over the years. Nina didn’t understand why exactly, since the point was to help  _ improve _ her mental state. But having Brooke confront her feelings head on? It was a risky decision to say the least. A string of texts from Nina come through rapidly one after another.

n:  __ _ you’ll be fine, b  _

_ it’s only an hour of ur life  _

_ i’m going out tonight w work girls _

_ u should come x _

As much as Brooke would like to go out for another consecutive night, she couldn’t subject Nina to the consequences of her joining them. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if Nina was ostracised by her colleagues for being friends with a  _ murderer _ . Nina deserved the entire world. Brooke had come to the conclusion that their friendship was one better off kept secret. For Nina’s sake.

b:  __ _ don’t think i’ll be welcome _

Almost immediately there’s a response:

n: __ _ they will love u _

_ besides u can’t turn down a drink x _

Regardless if she was accompanied by Nina or not, both girls were aware of Brooke’s intentions for the night. As soon as she could possibly leave this building, she will, heading directly towards the closest alcohol vendor. It would be nice if she wasn’t alone while she did it. 

b: _ fine, u have convinced me x _

“Miss Hytes? Doctor Envy is ready to see you now.”

. . .

Tires skid on wet asphalt, blue and red lights flashing, sirens blaring through the city streets. A quarter of an hour had passed of their manhunt, the novelty was finally wearing thin. News gushes through the radio, reported sightings, updates, anything. Eyes glued to signs of movement, Yvie’s soaking up every miniscule detail of the city. Jobs like this one were the exact reason she joined the force. The adrenaline courses through her veins like a drug. Brooke’s extra few years on Yvie had caused her to become jaded. She was just waiting for the excitement to die down so she can clock off and indulge in a glass of wine at home. Of course she wanted the perpetrator to be caught and justice to be served, but pursuits like this were plain exhausting. 

A call comes through and Brooke has her fingers crossed it’s home time. Her heart sank as Superintendent Cain’s voice bellowed through the speaks, “Any sightings yet girls?”

“It looks like the apocalypse has hit Toronto,” joked Yvie, “There’s not a single person out.” 

“The guy’s Damon Carmichael. Been causing trouble for years,” Brooke recognised the name. She’d never dealt with him herself, but he had been a headache of her colleagues. There was a series of charges scattered all over the county in his name.

“There’s a dead woman rotting in his apartment. I don’t care if you bring back his corpse, I want him caught.”

The phone clicked off abruptly, the orders loud and clear. Brooke let out a sigh as drove down the same street for the umpteenth time. Streetlights dull, barely illuminating the empty road. She’s sure the neighbours are annoyed by them at this point. It was just another night on the job, keeping the country safe.

Out of the corner of her eye, Yvie swore she spotted something. Wound up on anticipation, Brooke just assumed paranoia had finally set in. However, Yvie’s adamant someone’s hiding by the church. Bringing the car to a halt, they decided to investigate. Gun firmly in hand, Yvie exited the car rushing directly into the darkness. Blood pumping, Brooke followed suit hand clutching the gun attached to her waist. 

“ _ Police _ !”

As Yvie announced their presence, something dashed away from them. It’s far too dim for them to work out what they can see. The younger girl is quick on her feet, Brooke in tow. A man emerged onto the dimly lit street. Burgundy sweatshirt, slim, young. A picture perfect match. Both women raised their guns in response.

“ _ Freeze _ !” Brooke called. The man glanced back as he sprinted ahead. They picked up speed, trailing behind him. Yvie was just in reach, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. An attempt to tackle him is thwarted as he shoves the younger girl backwards, toppling onto the pavement. He keeps running.

“I said _freeze!_ ” 

Brooke knew what she had to do. In front, he’s losing traction. Panting heavily, feet battering the concrete. She’s caught up. So has Yvie, who had dusted herself off with more motivation than ever before. With Yvie ahead, Brooke comes to a stop.

_ I don’t care if you bring back his corpse, I want him caught. _

Yvie grappled him around his neck, the man writhing in her grip. His fist flies up, the impact straight to the jaw. He continued to thrash around, Yvie unable to secure her restraint. Hands shaking, Brooke raised her gun. If Yvie tightens her grasp, she’d have a clear shot. 

“ _ Fucking bitches! _ ” It’s spat straight onto Yvie’s face. Agitated, she raises her knee into his stomach. He brought his free hand to strike Yvie again. 

“Didn’t you ever learn not to hit women,” she hissed directly into his ear. The arm around his neck constricts him just for a moment. He’s still flailing in her grasp, but he’s still enough for Brooke to fire. Finger to the trigger.

_ Bang _ .

_ Bang _ .

The echoing of the gunshots ring as blood pools at Yvie’s feet. She has let go, but he’s wailing, still squirming on the sidewalk. Two shots straight to the chest. Yvie fell to her knees, drenched in his blood. Streets of Toronto painted red. Everything’s blurry in Brooke’s head. The gun is still raised towards him. She’s  _ frozen _ .

. . .

“It wasn’t your fault, Brooke Lynn. You were just doing your job,” Doctor Envy shifts in her seat uncomfortably. The last time Brooke was here, she was just a destructive addict. Miles away from her usual cases in this small town, but things were different now. Years of psychology classes couldn’t have prepared her to be face to face with a murder.

“I wish people would stop telling me that,” Brooke slumps into her chair, sulking. The conversation had run in circles for the first half of the session. Doctor Envy prying into the very few facts she had learnt from the past. Addiction. Self-Injury. Relapse. Usually after years of knowing a client,  _ some _ walls have been broken down. But everything Doctor Envy knew about Brooke was from medical files and newspaper reports. The most significant information shared was about her relationship with Luke starting and ending. She hated predicting the future of her clients, but it was inevitable. Unless Brooke started opening up about her feelings, she was a lost cause. 

Doctor Envy scrawls meaningless notes down on her clipboard, each stroke filling the empty silence. Brooke isn’t going to crack. Not today, not ever. Brooke intently watches the hands on the clock get closer to the moment she can leave. 

“You aren’t evil, Brooke.” She says it out loud, her voice shaking slightly. She says because she thinks it’s what Brooke wants to hear. Needs to hear. Brooke acts like it is white noise. Unconvinced by her words, Doctor Envy repeats herself.

“ _ You’re not evil _ .”

“You don’t know that,” Brooke interjects. Her stare is cold and uninviting. She adjusts her posture, leans forward, spits, “You don’t know  _ anything _ about me.”

She’s tired of waiting for confessions to pour out. The truth is only going to reveal itself if she rips it out with her own hands.  _ Tough love _ .

“I know enough. Sometimes, it’s what you don’t say that matters most. Everyone in your life can see that you are struggling and they want to help you. But only you can start that journey to recovery.”

Frustrated, Brooke stands up, “Thank you for your time.”

“Stop running from yourself, Brooke,” Doctor Envy adds. A bookend to a bad conversation. 

The door slams shut.

. . .

Vanessa is dressed to the nines. She’s in a leather ensemble: tight skirt, sandals laced to her thighs, braids flowing down from the crown of her head. Silky is ecstatic with her handy work. Sitting on the floor of her apartment, the girls took swigs from a bottle of vodka. Everyone was ready on time (for once), their cab moments away. 

When A’keria had invited them all out, Silky had insisted to makeover Vanessa. It wasn’t a new thing, the girls often took turns dolling each other up. But it was Silky and at times she could be  _ violently _ enthusiastic. Especially since Vanessa had accidentally ignored them all week, devoted on this story. A story which she was avoiding telling them about, knowing how unimpressed they will be. 

They head out to a club the next town over. Nightlife in their small town was lifeless, full of drunks and rowdy men. They preyed on the presence of a female. Vanessa had seen it the night before. She had been around enough that the locals left her alone, but they flocked towards the first sight of fresh meat. It was a more balanced playing field when the numbers were equal. And from what A’keria had said, their group tonight was larger than normal.

“I have something to tell you,” Vanessa shares as they step out of the car. Silky tosses the taxi driver a wad of cash, tells him to keep the change. As he drives off, the girls ask what it is. 

“I’m writing a story, somethin’ interesting for a change.” The girls walk towards the end of the line. Vanessa rustles through her purse, pulls out her ID from her wallet. Patiently, A’keria and Silky wait for details.

“It’s about Brooke Lynn.”

Silky and A’keria burst into laughter. The line inches closer towards the door, but they haven’t yet realised. Vanessa raises her eyebrow in confusion. 

“Told ya so,” Silky howls, “Knew you were keeping something from us, bitch.”

“Can’t stay away from those bad girls, huh?” A’keria smirks. 

A bouncer checks their identification, lazily flipping the card over. He points for them to go past, Vanessa last in formation. A’keria’s on the lookout for her friends as they enter the crowd. Hoards of dancing girls surround them, unknowingly sloshing vodka sodas on the floor with each movement. Gesturing forward, A’keria pushes ahead. Strobe lights pulsate from the ceiling. Their group collides with the other. Vanessa recognises a few of the women. Nina. Honey.  _ Brooke _ .

Even in the erratic lighting of the club, Vanessa could tell the blonde was staring right at her. Their eyes meet, gaze lingering as Nina tries to introduce them over the blaring music. Brooke pulls away first, coyly smiling. A layer of sweat coats Vanessa’s palms. This was the last thing she was expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the comments & kudos !! you can reach me on tumblr @missvanjies !!


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